...the more I realize I'll never be able to read all the books I'd like to.
It's been one of those months: in spite of the fact (or perhaps because of it?) that I've been extremely busy, I've been doing a lot of reading. And somehow, it seems that that the faster I finish books the more discontent I become with my mortality. All the more reason to slow down, you might say, but I'm finding it rather impossible. Reading is my escape from all the things that need doing. Give it up? Slow it down? Impossible.
I'm fairly certain that my current bibliovore status, (the number of books I'm flying through, opposed tho the amount of blogging I'm doing about it,) has much to do with the type of busy I am. It isn't that I have a tremendous amount of engagements filling my time, although I do have more than usual. It is more a matter of my brain being saturated by a large quantity of transitive items.
There's more, as there always will be, but to return to the point at hand, it is all this busy-ness that makes me feel that I'm running out of time. Not just to read, (or quilt or knit or write or blog,) but to breathe and think and enjoy the life I'm so blessed to have. No matter how much I fit in, there is that much more still waiting for me. There may always be an abundance of things that need doing, and I may (or may not) get to them all eventually, but when obligations press in I retreat to the basics: family and reading. It's been a light month on the blogging end and I'm missing it, but I'll get back to it. Craziness will ebb, perspective will return, and I'll have time to bother you all mercilessly about all my bookish thoughts. You've been warned.